


Can't Get You Out of My Mind

by Laura_Raptor



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Male Slash, Romance, Sexy Times
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-25
Updated: 2017-02-25
Packaged: 2018-09-26 21:06:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9922109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laura_Raptor/pseuds/Laura_Raptor
Summary: What if Archie hadn't blown Jughead off at the beginning of summer? What if what happened on their road trip was why they stopped speaking. Just what happened between them to cause such a rift?This is a bit of emotional fluff with some heat. Definitely an adult read.





	

The one good thing in my life, even when things went to shit, was Archie. My dad stealing, my mom leaving, everything. At least I had Archie in my life.

I can’t remember a time that Archie and I weren’t best friends. Sure, Betty is there, too, but their friendship isn’t like ours. I don’t like to admit it, but I find myself looking up to him. His ability to be anyone’s friend. And even though he could pick anyone, he’s always made sure I knew I am his very best friend.

So when he asked if I wanted to go on a roadtrip to New York City, there was no way I was going to say no.

I was the first person Archie told about his budding love of music. While I can’t help but feel a little sad for him - music is such a rough business to break into - I support him. Besides, he supports my desire to be a journalist, which isn’t any easier to get into these days. He can be the rockstar, and I’ll report on his debauchery. Everybody wins.

So with my pack over my arm, I approach the Andrews home at seven in the morning, just like we planned. My whole life is in that bag, not that Archie knows that. That’s my one secret - that the pack is my home. If he knew I was... between stable homes, he’d insist I move in with him. While Archie is my best friend, I don’t know how it would go over with his dad. The Andrews and Jones men of the older generation are not exactly on speaking terms.

“Hey man!” Archie greets me as he jumps down the steps leading off his front porch. “You ready to do this?”

“Sure,” I tell him, though deep down I’m excited. “Where’s your guitar?” I whisper when he gets closer.

“In the trunk,” he whispers back. “I put it out there last night after dad went to bed. Safer that way.”

“Cool,” I say with a slight uptick of my chin. 

The car itself is anything but cool though. Not that either of us care or truly notice. His old man bought it a month ago, a 1996 Corolla. Probably the uncoolest car ever made. But it’s reliable, has good mileage, and will get us to NYC so Archie can take in the music and I can visit the New York Times building.

“You boys drive safe,” Fred Andrews says as he steps out into the cool morning air. “And text me when you get to where you’re staying.” Summer is still officially two weeks away and the dew is heavy on the morning grass, but it’s warm enough that at most one needs only a long sleeve shirt. By mid-afternoon, we’ll be sweating against the busted AC unit in the car.

“We will dad,” Archie tells him, embarrassed by the show of concern, but secretly enjoying it. On my end, jealousy flares up inside of me, but I’d never let either of them see it.

“C’mon, Arch’,” I mutter. “Let’s get on the road. I want to get to the city before it gets too late.”

That bit is a lie, too. I just want to get away from Archie’s dad. He looks at me with a mix of suspicion in pity in his eyes, like he’s certain I’ll end up like my old man, but feels bad for me for it. It makes my skin crawl.

The seats of the car are, in a word, uncomfortable. Not terrible, mind you, but not anything like the classics of my father’s day, nor like those of the modern cars most in Riverdale are seen driving. The car is from an era where functionality mattered more than anything else, including comfort, looks, or mileage. Not that it matters. Neither of us are here for comfort.

We’re quiet as Archie pulls the car out of his lane and onto the street. The hum of excitement is buried deep beneath my skin, but I don’t let it free until we hit the highway. It’s like I kept thinking something would derail us as we cut through Riverdale, but once we make it to the highway, we’re free and clear.

“We’re doing this!” Archie cries out with glee as we get on the highway. “In fifteen hours, we’ll be in the Big Apple!”

“All right!” I join in the celebration. I pound my fist against the roof of the car and it thumps against the plastic frame. The open road ahead of us, my best friend beside me. I can already say with confidence that this is the best day I’ve ever had, and it’s only just begun.

We spend hours talking about what we want to see in the Big Apple, and then our talk turns to the things we can’t say with anyone else. Archie talks about Betty, and how he thinks I should ask her out. I tell him he’s a food, that she’s only got eyes for him, but he refuses to listen. We talk about Cheryl, and how we both hate her attitude, though Archie muses if he might be able to see past it because she’s so hot, while I know I never could.

Talk turns to our dreams for the future, about what we’re going to do after high school. Archie talks about his music, I pretend like college is still in my future, and we both ignore the real possibility that this is probably the last year we’ll truly stay best friends. He’ll go off to college, I’ll find my way somewhere, and that will probably be it. We’ll text each other, and I’ll tell him I’ll see him back in Riverdale during the holidays - though once I really leave that town I’m never going back - and eventually we’ll drift apart for good.

But right now that doesn’t matter. Right now it’s just he and I, and I’m truly happy. And I think he is too.

We stop for lunch at the first diner we see after noon and hang out there for longer than we should. It’s so much like Pop’s, but without all our friends there to suddenly appear and make private conversations so much less private. I get to have Archie all to myself, something that has become all too rare lately.

“I’m really glad we’re doing this,” I admit as I throw some of the little cash I have onto the table when we’re finally ready to pack it in.

“Me too,” Archie agrees. “Last year was so stressful, and everyone was just always there, you know? I just wanted a chance to hang out with my best bud for a few days. The trip to New York is just a bonus.”

His words cause a flutter in my chest. It’s not an entirely new feeling, but it’s stronger than ever before.

And it’s confusing.

“Sure, whatever,” I mutter as I push myself up from the table and shuffle to the front door. Whatever that flutter was, I decide it’s best to ignore it. 

Unfortunately it’s obvious that Archie notices something is up with me as we get back in the car. He pushes me for conversation, but it isn’t coming as naturally as before. From either of us. “So yeah, I think it might be cool to try football next year,” he says, but his words are clipped and awkward.

“Yeah, you’ve told me,” I tell him. Archie and football aren’t two things I want to put together. I don’t know where this sudden interest comes from, and I try to tell myself I don’t care.

Our ride is less talkative as the hours and miles tick by, and I hate myself for it. One stupid flutter and I’ve ruined the road trip for both of us. If I could just hide how I’m feeling like most people, this would be a hell of a lot easier.

We spent too much time in the diner, or that’s what Archie says, when we elect for drivethru for dinner. Really, I think it’s because the last meal we stopped for ended with me acting like an ass, so I can’t imagine him wanting a second go at that.

With burgers in our laps, Archie turns to me and finally says, “What the hell is wrong with you?”

His words catch me off guard and sting, though I should have expected them. I’ve been moping for six hours and it’s my fault, not his.

“Nothing,” I lie as we keep driving. The sun is still high in the sky, we have at least two hours of daylight left, but the GPS on my phone says it’ll be another three until New York. Three awkward hours with me not knowing how to say what I want to. Hell, I don’t even know what it is I want to say. ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you as my best friend’? Too lame. ‘You’re the only person who knows the real me’? Too vulnerable.

I guess awkward silence is better.

As time and miles cruise by and New York City is a scant hour or so away, Archie starts to get excited again. Even with the strange silence that fills the old car, he’s grinning and drumming his fingers on the steering wheel.

Now, what I want to do is drum right along with him. Tap my fingers on the plastic dashboard and join in with the beats coming from the crappy radio with its one working speaker. That isn’t what I do, of course it’s not.

Instead of having fun and forgetting about the weirdness that hangs over us, or maybe just me, I react in anger.

“Do you really need to do that?” I mutter just loud enough for him to hear me over the music.

“Oh come on,” he groans at me while he drums away. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but you need to lighten up.”

“Sorry,” I force myself to apologize. “Just a lot on my mind.”

That gets Archie to stop his drumming. Not the words, but my tone. Archie is the only one who knows the truth about my life. Well, most of it at least. Or more than anyone else. He gets the version that’s the closest to the truth. That’s what best friends are for.

“You want to talk about it?” Archie asks, and concern flashes over his face. Not the pitying kind of concern I’ve faced from his dad, Principal Weatherby, Betty, and everyone else. No, real concern simply because he’s my best friend and wants me to be okay.

Of course I want to talk to him about it. Hell, it concerns him, and I know I should talk to him about it. Instead, I offer, “Nah. I think I’ve just been sitting too long and my mind is going screwy. I’ll be fine once we get to our hotel.”

“I think you mean ‘crappy motel’,” Archie says with a laugh, and I let myself join him. Between what I could scrape together from working at the drive-in and what Archie had saved up, we were staying in the finest shitty motel that Manhattan has to offer. I could picture the bedbugs now, and wonder if sleeping in the car is a better bet.

The confusion that lingers in my mind finally starts to clear as the city skyline appears on the horizon. Millions of lights erupt into view and I let myself smile. I’ve dreamed of New York, of the stories and people in the city, since I was a child. Now I am so close that I can taste it, and I don’t want to let my mind’s tangled thoughts ruin this.

Archie is babbling excitedly by time we pull into the motel parking lot, listing the clubs he wants to go to, musicians he wants to see, people he wants to talk to. I’ve put my own research into this trip, but I guess I never thought about him doing the same. He’s got big dreams, lofty ones, but he’s always been excitable. I guess I never realized before now that he’s actually really serious about this music thing.

“Whatever you want to go, Arch,” I promise him. “I’m on board.” My words come out a little too personal, a little too enthused, and I hope he doesn’t notice.

“Thanks, Jughead,” he says as he pulls the car into a spot right outside the motel office. The place is on the very edge of the city, and I think we may actually be in New Jersey, but it doesn’t matter. We made it!\

Inside the office, Archie hands over his father’s credit card - taken with permission from Mr. Andrews under the explicit threat that any extra charges on it will be paid back with interest - and his very new driver’s license.

“You boys are a little young to be renting a room by yourselves,” the manager, a squat, balding man with a dirty button down shirt and crumbs in his scraggly beard, grumbles at us. Sleeping in the car is looking more and more like a better option.

“It’s under my dad’s information,” Archie tells him. 

“Right,” the manager grumbles as he goes through his books. A minute later, he hands over two keycards and adds a glare before he says, “You trash it, you pay for it. Got it?”

“Um, sure,” Archie says, his innocence radiating from him. Like Archie would trash anything.

Me though? Well, depends on how this trip goes.

We move the car to the spot outside our room. The very last room on the row of doors, as far from the office as possible. At least we’ll only have noise on one side of us.

“Hey, I snuck something in,” Archie says as he opens the trunk. Before I can question him, he unzips the backpack sitting in the trunk to reveal several beer bottles and a half finished bottle of whiskey.

I smirk. “Archie Andrews,” I say. “Underage drinking? I’m impressed.”

In the dull neon glow of the motel sign, I swear he blushes at that. My stomach flips. 

Shit.

I can’t let myself retreat into my own head again. It’s just my mind being crazy because of everything else going on in my life. That’s all it can be. I force a smile and grab my bag out of the trunk, forcing myself to act normal. To not shut Archie out again. We can’t play that game all weekend. It’s already been too exhausting.

Archie jams the card into the lock and with a flash of green, it opens to reveal our suite.

“Shit,” I repeat, but this time aloud.

The room isn’t as bad as I expected. It doesn’t appear to be covered in filth and bodily fluids, it’s not stained, and it’s relatively clean. To the naked eye, at least. There’s just one issue. The lone bed.

“Looks like it’ll be like when we had sleepovers as kids,” Archie says with a laugh as he enters the room. Reluctantly I follow him in, and decide not to mention the reason I wanted us to stop sharing a bed when we had sleepovers as kids.

“Great,” I grumble. I let my bag slide off my arm and onto the floor. “So uh, we heading out again then?”

Archie glances up from his phone. I assume he’s being the dutiful son and texting Fred to let him know we’ve arrived safely, if a fair bit late.

“It’s after eleven,” Archie says. “I was thinking we’d just eat snacks and maybe have a few of the beers I brought. Get an early start to the morning, if that’s cool.”

“Sure,” I say with another shrug. “What exactly did you bring?”

“My dad is into craft beers,” Archie says. “I just grabbed a few that I don’t think he’ll notice.”

“He’ll notice,” I tell him, my voice too stern. “I just mean,” I move to correct, “your dad notices things like this. I doubt he’ll care. Stealing dad’s booze and drinking underage is a right of passage to a man like your dad.”

“I’m sure yours would feel the same,” Archie jokes, and I say nothing. Talking about my dad isn’t high on my list of priorities.

Sensing my animosity, or maybe it’s resentment, Arche grabs a couple of the beers and pops off the tops with his belt. He’s done this before. With Betty, maybe?

The beer is slightly warm and flat on my tongue, but I drink it hungrily. Anything to avoid saying what I’m thinking as Archie flops back on the bed we’ll have to share. That I want to share. That I desperately don’t want to want to share.

“I’m sure it would be better if it were cold,” I try to joke as I take another deep gulp of the warm beer. It comes across as snide and Archie only answers by looking away from me. In anger? I’m not sure.

We silently crack another beer together and the lack of food and sleep, the beer hits me hard and fast. I’ve drank before, pilfering from the Snake’s stash on occasion, and of course at lame high school parties, and been fine. Well, fine enough. But I’m already running a quick buzz and I’m only a beer and a half in.

“All right, what is going on with you?” Archie finally presses me. From the flush under his skin, I have a feeling his alcohol tolerance is as low as mine right now. “I’m used to you being moody, but never like this. Not with me. This is supposed to be a fun trip, and you’re captain buzzkill.

“I’m fine,” I shoot back, though we both know I’m not. He’s right, I’m moody and lashing out at him, and it’s his fault, but I can’t tell him that, because that will open a whole can of worms I doubt either of us can handle.

“Bullshit,” he barks at me, and something in me snaps. I go from moody to escapism. I can’t handle this, not with Archie. I thought I could ignore it, but there’s something in me that wants out. That I can’t keep denying.

So I try to run.

My feet don’t move as quickly as I expect them to thanks to the two beers I’ve chugged. I’m sluggish and my head spins as I move to the door. My fingers fumble with the knob, and before I can turn it, Archie’s arm extends over my shoulder to keep the door firmly shut.

“Where are you going?” he growls in my ear before I can turn to face him.

I turn, ready to mince words, but my voice catches in my throat as I look up at him. When did Archie get this big? He envelops me, strong arm over my shoulder and face so close I can smell the beer on his breath. His heavy, hot breath.

I’m unable to meet his eyes. His deep, soulful eyes. “Out,” I grumble back.

“No,” he counters. One word, one powerful world that rings in my ears.

For a moment that feels like an eternity, neither of us moves. The tension is so thick and heavy I could reach out and touch it, but I can’t move. I’m frozen here, surrounded by Archie. My best friend, the one person who ever really got me, the one who makes my heart flutter. Such a crazy new development that I don’t think I can fight anymore.

My mind screams at me to do something. To push him away, to pull him closer, to touch him, to hit him. To do something! But I can’t. I don’t even know where to begin. We stand there together, not moving, for so long that I wonder if time has stopped. If one of us will ever move again. 

Finally, I force myself to look in his eyes. Such a small gesture, but so powerful. Powerful enough that I can’t ignore the sparks of emotional lightning jolting between our bodies. 

Archie is so close to me that I can’t breath. Something is going to happen, but I can’t will myself to do it. I can only hope that Archie, foolhardy Archie, will decide what will happen next. It’s too much for me.

After an eternity of motionless tension, his fingertips move to my jaw and my heart flutters. For only working for a few days with his dad, Archie’s fingers are rough on my skin. My eyes close as his touch deepens and I let my head rest in his strong hands.

The slow stall of tension filled time suddenly rockets forward with his touch. In one moment, we are stuck frozen, the next everything is moving so fast. Before I can understand what is happening, Archie’s lips are pressed against mine. Exploring, probing, powerfully taking what he wants and me giving it to him. The taste of beer and sweat hit my tongue as our lips part and my mind swims in it.

Suddenly, violently, his hands are on me and I move in kind. Finally feeling the muscles of his body under my touch, exploring him and finding every curve, every knook, every rise and fall of tense, lean muscles. His hands pull me forward, urging me toward the bed and our lips never part.

My legs press up against the side of the bed and suddenly I realize just what we are doing. What it means. What the implications are.

“Archie,” I whisper against his lips. “Archie, stop.”

“Why?” he asks between hot, hard kisses.

“Because as nice as this is,” I admit, “we might regret it. We can pretend this never happened, make things normal. But if we go further? Things won’t be the same.”

The words are hard for me to say. They’re even harder for me to hear.

He leans his forehead against my own. “Maybe I don’t want things to be the same,” he sighs. “Maybe it’s worth the risk.”

It’s that honesty that has always drawn me to Archie. That desire to take risks, even when it’s scary. That no matter what the consequences, he’d rather explore than hold back.

I answer him not with words, but a kiss of my own and let him pull me onto the bed. The lumpy, slightly uncomfortable motel bed, but I don’t even notice that. Or at least it barely registers. All that matters is the weight of Archie’s body on top of my own.

Our clothes are an inconvenience and we fight to get them off of us as fast as possible. Though I’ve gone swimming with Archie, seen him in little more than swimming trunks, but this is so much different. So much more.

My hands explore his bare skin and his mine. He’s hard and smooth and rough all at one. A hot, passionate sweat coats our skin as we finally get to discover new, deeper sides of each other. Hands, lips, skin, and touch are all that matters now, all I want, all I need.

When he asks for permission before he takes me, all of me, I nearly laugh. So typical of Archie, always the good guy. Always the romantic at heart.

Hot, tender, forceful and perfect, for a glorious moment in time, we are one. It’s better than I could have ever imagined in those fleeting moments that I let myself pretend that this might ever. Now that it is, I don’t know how to comprehend it. For the first time in my life, I’m truly, utterly speechless.

When he’s finished, when we’re finished, I find myself wrapped in his muscular arms. My head rests on his chest, enjoying the soft rise and fall of his breath, while he plays with the curls of my dark hair that fall around my beanie which has miraculously stayed on my head during the whole affair.

In spite of myself, I begin to laugh. Not the dry, sardonic laugh I’ve come to wear as a suit of armor, but a warm, deliriously happy laugh. Arms still around me, Archie joins in. It’s nothing less than joy over what we’ve finally let ourselves experience. I’m still laughing lightly as my eyes begin to droop, and I drift off into the best sleep I’ve found in years.

But the harsh light of morning reveals all kinds of sins. What was a joyous embrace suddenly turns awkward as we wake in the morning sunlight.

“Arch,” I begin to say as my best friend climbs out of bed and quickly grabs his discard boxers to pull on.

“I’m going to go get us some breakfast,” he says without turning back to look at me. He dresses quickly and runs his fingers through his red hair to control it. He’s out the door before I even have a chance to grab my own clothing that is scattered all over the floor.

Things don’t get better when he comes back with a stack of breakfast sandwiches. I force myself to talk to him, but he won’t even look at me. All I need is a word, an assurance of some kind. Even something as heartbreaking as, ‘we made a mistake’ would be better than the unending silence. That unknowing is absolutely killing me.

New York is an absolute bust. The next night Archie is curled up at the edge of the bed and texting every girl in his phone almost manically. Looking to prove something. Something tells me he’ll pull the first girl he sees when we get home into his bed in an effort to prove to himself that what we shared didn’t matter to him.

Not like it matters to me.

If only he would talk to me. I can’t get him out of my mind.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm also working on an ongoing Riverdale fic told from Jughead's perspective that is much more an accompaniment to the show itself, if that interests you! It's called Tangled Together and contemplates what would happen if Jughead found a new home at Veronica's while trying to unravel the mysteries in Riverdale.


End file.
